


Model Employee

by cheride



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Episode: s01e05 The Portrait, Forgery, Friendship, Gen, Missing Scene, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25705306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheride/pseuds/cheride
Summary: Neal really just wanted to do the right thing--return a stolen painting--and to do that, he had to make a forgery along the way. But Peter's on to him, and that could spell trouble for this fledgling partnership.  Missing scene for S01E05, The Portrait.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 27





	Model Employee

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I know it’s TV, but sometimes Neal gets away with things that are so incredibly boneheaded and nothing is ever said about the problems it would really cause and I feel like maybe those issues should be explored just a little bit, even if we all know things still have to work out okay in the end. And, besides, Peter’s a smart guy, too; he really shouldn’t be in the dark nearly as often as he is. Such is the case during the first season in “The Portrait,” wherein Neal not only forges a painting that’s going to be returned to a museum, but also _signs_ the forgery. _Seriously?_ And, Peter obviously knows there’s something wrong even at the time, but we never get to see any ramifications from that. Then, fast forward to season four, the painting is now hanging in a different museum (which is a whole other can of worms) and Neal is joking about the artist in a way that strongly implies Peter is aware he’s talking about himself. Okay, I give. That is too much backstory for me to leave unattended.

* * *

Neal Caffrey was lounging on the bed, thinking—about Kate, about Julianna, about Haustenberg, about everything and nothing—when he heard a determined knock on his door. He would’ve liked to ignore it, recognizing from the sound alone that it was a displeased Peter Burke, but he knew that approach would only lead to more displeasure. Still, he preferred when he could answer that particular knock with a clear conscience, offer a few reassurances, and then move on, but, of course, his conscience wasn’t entirely clear today. That might make things tricky.

Those thoughts all ran through his head in the time it took him to roll off the bed and take two steps toward the door, buttoning his untucked shirt as he went, but then he was saved the trouble of answering when the door suddenly flew open, allowing the agent to storm through then slam it behind him. Peter was definitely displeased. Caffrey plastered a grin on his face and offered a sardonic greeting. “Come on in.”

Burke whirled to face him and jabbed a finger in the air in the general direction of his consultant. “Don’t!”

Neal allowed his expression to melt into confusion, but he didn’t ask any questions. That bit about discretion and valor seemed particularly apropos right now. Also, he thought maybe _tricky_ wasn’t quite going to cover it today.

But after almost a full minute of being frozen in place by Burke’s silent, steely gaze, Caffrey’s resolve was weakening. He couldn’t defend himself against unspoken accusations. “Peter?” He wished the single word hadn’t come out sounding quite so hesitant, maybe even fearful, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

For his part, Burke still wasn’t talking, just standing in the middle of the apartment, seemingly stuck in the same spot he’d landed after the adrenalin of his furious entrance had worn off. Caffrey stared back, taking in the clenched jaw, the hands fisted at his sides, the way the agent was trying to control his breathing, so clearly wanting to speak but probably not yet trusting himself. And, he couldn’t help but recognize the dark suit—nothing as tailored and fashionable as the sort Caffrey himself preferred, but still looking professional and ready for business, even now, late in the afternoon, when most FBI business should have been concluded. And given the agent’s current demeanor, it made the con man wonder fleetingly if Burke was going to wear that same suit _every_ time he arrested him.

Giving himself a mental shake, Caffrey forced himself to move. “Want a beer?” he asked as conversationally as possible, taking the first couple of steps toward the kitchen.

“What did you do?” Burke asked dangerously just as Caffrey was passing him on the way to the kitchen.

The words stopped the younger man in his tracks as surely as if he had been physically restrained. He shifted slightly to face the agent. “Do?”

“With the painting. What did you do with the painting?”

Neal blinked at the clipped words, the murderous tone. If Peter was trying to scare him, it was working. “You mean the Haustenberg? The painting I gave to Dorsett right before you arrested him?” He tried to inject a little sarcastic annoyance into his voice, make Peter realize he was talking crazy. It didn’t work.

“Yes, the Haustenberg. No, _not_ the painting you gave to Dorsett.”

“I don’t—”

“The _real_ Haustenberg,” Burke interrupted.

“What are you talking about, Peter? Didn’t that blowhard from the Channing authenticate it?”

“He did.”

Caffrey shrugged slightly, hands spread, palms up, and raised his eyebrows quizzically, but he stopped himself from actually demanding Peter explain what the hell he was talking about. This was not the time to go on the offensive; that would be overplaying it, and he couldn’t afford that.

“He’s wrong,” Peter told him flatly.

“He’s the expert,” Neal replied with another shrug.

The agent glanced around the apartment suddenly. “You remember that I don’t need a search warrant as long as you’re on probation, right?”

“I remember. And I don’t have anything to hide. Search. Just please be careful; you know most of this stuff is June’s.” Caffrey finally moved toward the kitchen again and took care not to let on how difficult that was to do. “So, was that a yes or no on the beer?” He pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with wine from the nearest bottle, then sipped slowly as he leaned himself casually against the countertop.

Burke swiveled toward the kitchen, keeping the young man directly in his line of sight, but he still hadn’t moved from his spot. “It’s not here then.” Not even a question.

Sometimes Neal wished Peter didn’t know him quite so well. He answered, anyway. “Of course not.”

“Your expert, the guy at the Channing—”

“He’s not _my_ expert,” Caffrey broke in. “Blowhard, I told you.”

“I don’t think he was wrong.”

Neal started to relax. “Well, good. I’m sure—”

“I think he was lying.”

The tension ratcheted up again. “Why would he do that?”

“You tell me, Neal, why _would_ he do that? You splitting the sale price with him?”

Caffrey felt his face begin to redden. That hurt a little, to know Peter thought so little of him. Not that he could entirely claim the moral high ground in this situation, but it wasn’t about money. “There’s no sale price, Peter,” he said softly.

“Is it about Kate? You paid him off because you need the painting for Kate somehow?”

“Peter, you’re not making any sense. The Haustenberg has nothing to do with Kate. And I’ve got nothing to do with the Channing curator. Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”

“I know you took it, Neal.”

“Of course I took it; I told you that. And then we caught Dorsett.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Caffrey. You took it, you _forged_ it, and then you gave the fake back to Dorsett, which for some reason, the Channing was willing to accept. I know you’ve got the real one.”

“I don’t, Peter, I swear to you.”

“Then you _have_ already sold it. Or traded it for something. Quick work, I have to give you that.”

“No, I didn’t,” Neal insisted.

“Then _what_?” Peter demanded, exasperated. “Tell me what I’m missing. What did I overlook?”

“The part where I work for you now.”

“Nice try.” Burke closed the distance between them in three swift steps. “Did you forge the painting?”

“Why would I do that, Peter? I don’t want to go back to prison.”

“Enough with the tap dancing, Caffrey. It’s a yes or no question. Did you forge the Haustenberg?”

Neal took another swallow of wine, then set his glass aside slowly, considering options. The most obvious, of course, was simply to lie. In the absence of proof, Peter might even believe him, but that felt like it somehow landed on the negative side of the calculations.

Alternatively, he could run. It seemed inelegant, considering he’d almost certainly have to fight Peter first, but he was pretty sure the guy wouldn’t go so far as to shoot him, so he might actually get away. Not for long, though; Peter would find him eventually, even if there wasn’t an anklet to contend with.

Or, he could just confess. It wasn’t like Peter didn’t know the truth anyway. But his mind recoiled at the thought. Neal Caffrey didn’t confess, not even to Peter Burke. Maybe _especially_ not to Peter Burke. He took a moment to wonder if the agent had recognized how hard it had been for him last night, to even admit that he’d taken the painting _from the_ _bad_ _guy_. Besides, if he confessed now, he’d have to explain about Julianna, and he didn’t want to cause her any trouble.

“Come on, Caffrey,” Burke urged, “yes or no?” His tone made clear he was already confident what the answer would be.

Neal searched the brown eyes before him for just a moment, wanting to find even a trace of hope or compassion, but all he saw was anger and disappointment. “Peter, I—” he broke off, unable to tell the truth and unwilling to lie. He let his gaze drop down to the floor, and knew that Peter never really needed his confirmation anyway.

“Turn around, Neal.”

Caffrey heard the words as if through a wind tunnel; they seemed muffled by distance and a swirling maelstrom. It took a few seconds to recognize it was the sound of blood rushing to keep up with his suddenly pounding heart. But before he could comply, he felt a firm hand grab his arm and spin him around, then shove him back up against the counter, holding him in place as he felt the cold steel of handcuffs first on one wrist and then the other. “I think I really hate that suit,” he muttered, as he heard Burke begin reciting the Miranda warning. But as he listened to Peter drone on about appointed lawyers, the door opened unexpectedly.

“So, did Julianna—” Mozzie froze, mouth hanging open but words halted, hand on the knob of the still-open door, eyes wide behind his glasses, staring at the scene before him.

Peter had also stopped speaking, and his grip had tightened on his prisoner as if he feared the sudden appearance of Caffrey’s sidekick might be the first step in some sort of daring escape plan. Neal almost wished that were true as the three stared at each other for many long seconds. Mozzie was the first to break the spell.

“What the hell, Suit?”

But Caffrey jumped in with an answer. “Just a misunderstanding, Moz; you should go.”

“No, you should stay,” Burke told him, using his most threatening FBI tone. “I suppose you’re the middle man? Probably hard to fence something in a tracking anklet.”

“No, Peter, that’s not—”

“I’m not talking to you, Caffrey,” Peter barked, his fingers digging into the younger man’s arm just enough to accentuate his point.

Mozzie had finally made his way out of the doorway and now stood only inches from Peter, glowering up at him. “Seriously, Suit, what the **_hell_** _?_ What are you doing? And what are you blathering on about fencing things? Neither of us is doing that. Let him go.”

“Look, Haversham, I don’t owe you any explanations, but your friend here is about to take a one-way trip back up the river because he can’t seem to keep his hands off other people’s things. If you really haven’t fenced the painting yet, then know that I’m going to make it a priority to catch you when you do; and if you _have_ already unloaded it, I’d hang on to that money, because you’ll need it for a lawyer when I tie it all back to you, then you and Caffrey can finally be reunited.”

“Peter, stop it!” Caffrey twisted roughly against the agent’s grip, managing to break free to turn and glare at him. “Mozzie isn’t involved!”

“So, there _is_ something to be involved in then?”

Caffrey swallowed hard and clamped his mouth shut. That had been a poor choice of words, and he couldn’t afford to make things worse. And, besides, Moz really wasn’t involved, so no matter how much Peter ranted, Mozzie should ultimately be fine. But he was not expecting the words that came out of his friend’s mouth.

“This is about the Haustenberg?” Mozzie asked.

Burke arched an eyebrow. It seemed he hadn’t expected anything from the little man either. “It is. What do you know about it?”

“I know Neal didn’t steal it.”

“Moz . . .” Neal huffed out a short warning.

“Of course he stole it,” Burke contradicted, “that’s not even up for debate. It’s the forging of it that we’re getting to the bottom of now.”

“He didn’t steal it from its rightful owner,” Moz clarified.

“ _Mozzie!_ ” Neal recognized the situation was spiraling out of control. Bad enough that he was going to take a fall for this mess, but if Moz didn’t shut up, he was going to get himself in deep on some sort of conspiracy charge, or at least accessory, not to mention dragging Julianna down with them.

But then he saw Peter’s eyes start to squint, his mouth twist up at the edges, his brow furrow in thought. He’d seen that look plenty of times over the past couple of months—Peter was putting pieces together. He needed to take back some control, redirect Burke’s attention; unfortunately, he didn’t have much to offer that would distract Peter from a puzzle.

“I’ll give you a confession.”

The words had been spoken softly, but they landed like a bomb—unexpected, scary, and leaving eerie silence in their life-altering wake. Mozzie and Peter both gaped at him, neither one offering up any sort of response. Under other circumstances, Neal might’ve laughed. Instead, he forced himself to keep up his momentum. “But there was no one else involved, Peter, so that has to be the deal: you get your confession, and you’re done with the investigation. No turning over rocks looking for other clues to answer all your questions.”

“What about restitution? I need the painting back.”

Caffrey shook his head. “Not possible.” He let his eyes travel up to lock on the older pair staring back at him. “But I swear to you, Peter, there’s no ill-gotten fortune lying around waiting to be spent, not by me, not by him.” He jerked his head in Mozzie’s direction. 

Burke looked like he was on the edge of accepting even those terms when Mozzie spoke up again. “Oh, for God’s sake, Suit, he gave it back to the girl.”

“Mozzie, dammit!” In his frustration, Neal surged forward, but Burke’s hand was suddenly on him again, shoving him back against the kitchen counter.

Mozzie was unrepentant. “I’m not letting you go back to jail for something this stupid, Neal.” He looked back at Peter. “The painting belonged to Julianna’s grandmother.”

“I know that’s what she said, but . . .” He looked back at his consultant. “Neal?” The agent’s anger seemed to have diminished considerably.

“Peter . . .” Caffrey didn’t even know what to say at this point. The secrets were out, but he still felt like he had to try and protect Julianna, make sure she got to keep her painting.

Burke seemed to read his mind. “If it’s truly hers,” he said, “you know I’ll do everything I can to help her keep it.”

Caffrey exhaled loudly and came to a decision. “Her grandmother is the girl in the picture, Peter,” he began. “Haustenberg was her father, but he already had a family. He left it to her when he died, but the family and museum ignored the will, and it ended up in the Channing. Julianna’s grandmother managed to liberate it, then she left it to Julianna when she died.”

Burke was staring at him again, though not with the smoldering fury he’d shown earlier. Mostly now, it was just bafflement, but there was still a pretty healthy dose of annoyance, too. “Is there any actual proof of any of this, or were you just suckered in by a cute young girl with a sob story?”

“He knows you too well,” Moz commented as he shuffled around the others and poured himself a glass of wine. “I’m just going to let you two talk for a minute.” He took his glass, along with the bottle, out to the terrace.

“So, it’s the cute girl thing, huh?” Peter guessed.

Caffrey rolled his eyes. “She still has the locket, and there’s an inscription on the painting. I don’t think she has anything else.”

Burke’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s more than I would’ve expected,” he admitted. He paused for a moment then asked, “Is there a reason you didn’t tell me?”

Neal shifted around slightly, the movement not quite a shrug. “I don’t know. At first, I didn’t really have a plan, I was just sort of operating on instinct.”

“No impulse control!” Mozzie called from the balcony, his idea of letting people talk clearly different than most.

“But then,” Neal continued, “once I saw the inscription and knew it really did belong to Julianna and not the museum, I knew the system might not be on her side and . . . well, I guess it sort of felt like a situation that would require more trusting, less verifying.” Peter winced a bit at that, causing Neal to look away guiltily. Even now, standing here in cuffs, knowing his handler was a breath away from dragging him back to maximum security, Caffrey didn’t really intend to hurt the guy. But then Burke was speaking again, pulling Neal back to the moment.

“Julianna has the painting now?”

Caffrey nodded.

“And she’ll . . .” Burke hesitated and looked as if he wasn’t quite sure how he wanted to finish that thought.

“Corroborate my story?” Caffrey supplied ruefully. Part of him wanted to be offended, but he was fast learning that distrust was practically Peter’s natural state of being. It probably wasn’t even really personal—at least not entirely. “Of course. But, Peter, she didn’t ask me—”

“I got it,” Peter interrupted, “she wasn’t involved.” Then he said, “At least, beyond the possession of stolen property aspect of things.”

“ _Peter . . ._ ”

And then Burke smirked at him and shook his head. “Okay, okay. She wasn’t involved. I can’t promise she’ll get to keep the picture, but I can guarantee I won’t try to pursue charges against her. Or anyone else,” he added with a pointed look toward the balcony. Then he fixed his eyes back on Caffrey’s. “That was the deal, right?”

“If that’s the deal you want,” Caffrey answered slowly, not letting his eyes stray from Burke’s. “Like I said, I work for you now.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular model employee,” Peter groused. He examined his CI closely for a long moment, then took a step back. “You need shoes,” he said. “Got some you can slip into, or am I going to have to help dress you?”

“Or, third option, you could take these cuffs off me and I could dress myself,” Neal suggested, not bothering to ask where they were going.

Narrowing his eyes, Peter said, “It was either-or, not multiple choice.”

Neal wasn’t surprised by the answer. “It was worth a shot,” he said casually. “Frankly,” he continued, “I’m a little disappointed in you, Peter. You know my shoe size, but you’ve never noticed whether any of them are loafers? Sloppy.” He inclined his head toward the back of the apartment. “I need to get them out of my closet.” When Burke didn’t object, he pushed himself away from the counter and moved in that direction. He had reached the doorway before Peter spoke.

“Neal—is there a way out back there?”

Caffrey paused in the open doorway and looked back at the agent. “Yes. But I’m not going to use it.” He waited a few seconds, but again there was no objection, so he slipped into the hallway and out of sight.

Less than two minutes later, he stepped back through the doorway again. He raised a surprised eyebrow at finding Peter and Mozzie standing by the wine rack, talking quietly. They were an unlikely pair. He continued into the room until he stood next to his handler, but the conversation stopped as he approached. He certainly wouldn’t have expected those two to have secrets, but he knew Mozzie would never reveal any of Neal’s own secrets—current situation notwithstanding—and especially not to a suit, so he wasn’t worried, just curious. But that was really the least of his concerns right now.

“I see you managed,” Peter said, glancing down at Caffrey’s newly acquired loafers.

“I did.” Neal delivered the answer easily and didn’t look at Burke as he spoke.

“Caffrey?”

“What?”

“What did you do?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of asking me that?”

“More than you know. So?”

“I put on some shoes, Peter, just like you said. Didn’t even think about sneaking out the secret doorway, even though you’re apparently putting me back in jail for doing exactly what we set out to do—getting Julianna’s painting back.”

“I think you’re simplifying things just a bit.”

“It is simple,” Neal told him.

“I also think you’re trying to distract me.”

“I’m hoping you’ll forget to take me to jail.”

Burke shook his head with a sigh. “You’re exhausting. Just tell me you didn’t pick up some kind of weapon that you’re going to use to stage a grand escape and off me in the process.”

“Now who’s exhausting?” Caffrey asked, though he was honestly grateful for Burke’s strange brand of teasing. The man hadn’t been angry either of the times he’d arrested Neal before, so Neal was glad the agent had calmed down. The trifecta of cordial arrests, even if this time did feel about a million times worse than the other two combined. Still, he could play his part. “No weapons, no escape, no offing. Just shoes.”

“All right, let’s go then.”

Peter had retaken his arm, trying to steer him toward the door, but Caffrey resisted the movement for just a moment. “Mozzie.” The bantering tone had disappeared completely, replaced with dull resignation as he looked at his friend. “I don’t know when—”

“I’ll be around,” Moz assured him, “whenever it is.”

“Will you explain to June? And thank her for me?”

“Of course.”

Mozzie seemed unusually calm, but Neal figured that was for his benefit, and he found he appreciated the lack of drama. He gave his mentor a small, sad smile. “Thanks, Moz. For everything.” And then he relaxed into Peter’s grip and let himself be directed out of the apartment.

“You’re being awfully agreeable,” Peter commented as they reached the car.

“What? Because I didn’t bring along any weapons to off you?” Keeping up appearances.

“Not exactly, though I certainly appreciate that.”

Caffrey just shook his head and leaned against the car while Peter unlocked the doors. Then the agent took his arm again. “Turn around a minute, Neal.”

Burke reached for the handcuffs, then stopped, looking at them closely. “Oh. So that’s what you did.”

Caffrey sighed. “I couldn’t reach my shoes,” he admitted.

“So, you took them off, got your shoes, and then put them back on?”

“Just one hand, to get the shoes. And of course, I put it back; no point in not.”

“Still gave yourself a little more leeway, I see. What’s that, the emergency plan?”

Neal looked back over his shoulder with a small smile. “Peter, I’m being agreeable, remember? I just couldn’t tighten it as well behind my back.”

“Well, I was going to move them to the front, but I’d forgotten you didn’t really need my help with that sort of thing.”

“I’d appreciate it anyway.”

Burke chuckled. “What am I gonna do with you, Caffrey?” He unlocked the cuffs, then swung the young man back around to face him.

Neal resisted the impulse to tell him that apparently what he was going to do was put his consultant back in prison. “You really don’t need these, Peter,” he said mildly as he let himself be handcuffed again, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s procedure, you know that.”

“I do.” He maneuvered himself into the car without any further comment.

After a few minutes of driving, Burke finally spoke. “One hundred and two seconds.”

Caffrey turned away from watching the passing cars. “What?”

“That’s how long you were gone when you went to your closet, hundred and two seconds.”

“You were _timing_ me?”

“At a hundred and fifty, I was going to go find you,” Peter explained.

“Should’ve known,” Caffrey said with a slight grin. “You’ve always got a plan.”

“I do. Especially when it comes to Neal Caffrey and secret doorways. That can be a dangerous combination.”

“Used to be,” Neal said agreeably.

“Before you worked for me, huh? Anyway, the point is, not even two minutes. That’s fast work, even if you are only getting out of one bracelet.”

“I’ll teach you someday.” But then finally, the carefree demeanor slipped. “Guess it’ll be a while, though.”

Burke glanced over at him. “Neal, you should know—”

“Peter, _don’t_.” There was an unusual raw sincerity in Caffrey’s tone. “Just let it be what it’s always been—just you doing your job arresting me. I can deal with that. But I can’t have it be anything more; I can’t have it be about. . .” He gestured awkwardly with his bound hands, indicating his tracker, Peter, himself, the space between them, everything. “It can’t be about all of this. It just can’t.”

With a silent nod, Peter just kept driving, and Neal concentrated on getting himself back on an even keel, though he thought that might be more difficult than he was accustomed to. It was strange, really. When he’d proposed this rather unusual work release deal, the idea that he might end up back in prison hadn’t really been a consideration. He had thought he might escape—with Kate or otherwise—and he had even considered that he might simply serve out his time. But even though there had also been zero consideration of truly sticking to the straight and narrow, he just hadn’t thought about what would happen if he got caught. That had been a pretty big lapse in his planning, because it meant he certainly hadn’t considered what it would mean to have Peter Burke arrest him as a partner instead of just a fed. That was something he would’ve liked to prepare for before it came barreling out of nowhere and hit him like a Mack truck.

Yes, Peter had arrested him twice before, but there had been no weight of disappointment then. Even the last time, when Burke was clearly perplexed by Caffrey’s decision to escape prison with so little time left on the original sentence, there still had been nothing personal about it. Peter hadn’t blamed him, Neal hadn’t felt guilty, and Neal surely did not have some vague feeling of emptiness, like he’d managed to lose something intangible and unidentifiable but still vitally important. Caffrey wished like hell it could be that way again.

There was no more conversation until they reached Julianna’s home. Burke put the car in park, but then just sat, looking around as if he’d suddenly realized he had a problem.

Caffrey watched him silently for a few seconds then let out a snort. “Let me guess: you don’t want to take me inside—especially not in cuffs—and risk tainting your interview with Julianna, but you’re not sure you trust me out here alone.” He was glad that had come out much more naturally.

“You’ve always been sharp,” Peter muttered. “Got any suggestions?”

“Forget the whole thing and go home?” The glare that followed said Burke didn’t think much of that idea. Neal tossed out a couple more. “Cuff me to the car? Throw me in the trunk?”

“Would either of those things hold you?”

“Let’s try it and see,” Caffrey grinned. Burke was still glaring, and finally, Caffrey sighed. “Oh, come on, Peter, I told you I’m not going anywhere. Do whatever you need to do.” But the agent still didn’t look convinced.

“Okay,” Caffrey went on, “let’s split the difference. Uncuff me, and we’ll walk in there together, just like before, then you ask to speak to Julianna privately; I’ll wait quietly while you decide if I’m telling you the truth or not.”

“I’d probably rather take my chances with you out here than risk you flashing those baby blues at her so she says whatever you want.” Burke flashed a sudden devilish grin. “Besides, you know if you take off on me, I’ll just find you again.”

“I do know that,” Caffrey agreed, leaning his head back against the seat and closing his eyes. “Go. Convince yourself that your favorite consultant hasn’t absconded with the two-million-dollar painting, or given it to the wrong person. I’ll be here.”

“You’re my _only_ consultant,” Peter said just before slamming and locking the door, and Neal laughed despite himself.

It took less than half an hour for Burke to return to the car, and in that time, Caffrey thought he’d come up with a few decent arguments for keeping himself out of jail—assuming Peter would be willing to listen to any of them. He straightened himself in his seat and turned slightly toward the driver's side as he heard the door unlock. “Well?” he greeted before Burke was even fully seated.

“Well, I am at least convinced my favorite consultant didn’t abscond with the two-million-dollar painting,” Peter answered. “And he _probably_ even gave it to the right person.” He held up a hand as Neal started to grin. “But that doesn’t solve the problem of my consultant also _forging_ said painting, or ignoring just about every legal process in the book, does it?”

“I suppose not,” Caffrey said glumly. Then he added, “But it should.”

Peter let out a loud, gusty sigh. “It probably should,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I’m going to need dinner and a beer before I can decide if it actually does.” He fished his handcuff key from his pocket and reached over to unlock Caffrey’s hands. “Are you hungry?” he continued. “El has an event tonight, but she left a pan of lasagna for me.”

Neal rubbed absently at his wrists as he stared at Burke in confusion. “I could eat,” he replied, not sure what to even say about the rest of it.

Burke didn’t say anything further, either, just started the car and pointed it toward Brooklyn.

* * *

“Just give me a few minutes,” Peter said, giving Satchmo a distracted pat as he moved toward the kitchen. “Won’t take long to nuke it.”

Caffrey looked up from nuzzling Satchmo. “The _microwave_? Elizabeth goes to the trouble to leave you a delicious meal, and you’re going to do _that_ to it?”

Peter didn’t even break his stride. “It’s quick and easy, and if you’re careful, it doesn’t even get too dried out. Can you let the dog out while I deal with it?”

Rolling his eyes, Caffrey quickly opened the back door, smiled as he watched the lab run around the yard, then locked the door again and followed Peter into the kitchen. “Why don’t you let me do it?” he suggested. “See if we can end up with something closer to what Elizabeth intended?”

“It takes forever in the oven,” Burke complained.

“I won’t make you wait that long,” Neal promised. He surveyed the room. “Will you trust me with free run of your kitchen tonight? And, more important, would Elizabeth?”

Peter shrugged. “Since we’ve established you’re not planning to off me, I can probably trust you with the food. And El won’t care as long as we clean up.”

“Okay. Then why don’t you go do whatever it is you do when you’re not making major life decisions for your criminal informant. Give me . . . thirty minutes, tops.” Peter only dawdled long enough to grab a beer from the fridge, then let himself be shooed from the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, Neal pushed through the swinging door, carrying two plates from the kitchen to set upon the dining table, then ducked back inside and emerged again with a small plate of cheese-covered garlic toast.

“Hope that was speedy enough for you,” he called over to Peter, who was slumped comfortably on the couch watching the news while he enjoyed his beer.

“It smells good,” Peter said, sniffing the air appreciatively. “You want a beer?” he asked as he stepped into the kitchen to grab another for himself. “Or maybe wine?”

“Wine would be great,” Neal said. If it turned out this was his last meal as a free man for a while, he didn’t want to miss out.

Peter put the filled glass and the bottle on the table on Caffrey’s side, then they both sat. 

“This _is_ good,” Peter said after the first couple of bites. “Better than the microwave, I have to admit.”

“The trick is to fry it in slices,” Neal told him.

“I’ll have to remember that.”

Caffrey laughed. “No, you won’t. I’m guessing you’re very much a microwave kind of guy.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Is that supposed to be some sort of subtle segue?” Neal asked, glancing up from his plate.

“It wasn’t,” Peter answered, “but it can be.”

Caffrey frowned, uncertain. “Maybe you could just lay it out for me? Whatever you’re thinking, whatever the problems might be.”

“The most obvious problem, Neal, is that the Channing is going to hang a Caffrey creation on the wall where there ought to be a Haustenberg. Surely you see the problems there.”

“The way I see it, their curator is well aware that it’s a reproduction, so if they choose to purport that it’s an original, that’s on them.”

“A reproduction?” Peter scoffed. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”

“It’s only a forgery if you try to pass it off as the genuine article.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I didn’t,” Neal insisted. Then he reconsidered. “Well, I guess I did with Dorsett, but surely that doesn’t count, right?”

“We’ll come back to the problems with Dorsett; right now, let’s focus on the Channing. What kind of cockamamie excuse can you come up with that would prove you didn’t try to con them into believing they had the real painting?” Peter stabbed another bite of lasagna and chewed thoughtfully while he watched the younger man.

“First of all, Peter, my explanations are never _cockamamie_. And, second, besides the fact that my brushwork was obviously a little choppy, I signed it.”

The words caught Burke by surprise, caused him to inhale the most recent swallow of beer into his windpipe, and launched the man into a coughing fit. He was hacking into his napkin, still trying to speak even though he couldn’t entirely breathe, eyes wide and a little frantic, and wet with tears.

Caffrey had half-risen from his chair in concern, but Burke put out a hand, motioning him back into his seat. Finally, coughs subsided, Peter wiped the tears from his eyes and stared at his consultant. “You did _what_?” His voice was a little raspy, but there was no disguising the disbelief. Or the anger.

Recognizing a potential landmine, Neal tried to downplay what he’d done. “Well, not a full signature, just my initials . . . and a message for Walter.”

“A message for—?” Peter broke off, seemingly unable to grasp the idea. “Have you lost your mind? You incriminated yourself?”

“It probably wasn’t the brightest idea,” Neal admitted, “but that guy’s a pompous ass. If he’d called me on it, I would’ve just outed him and the museum for being the first ones to steal the painting, but I knew he wouldn’t do that because they don’t want that publicity, and he’d probably lose his cushy job. But, back to the matter at hand, they can’t possibly accuse me of trying to pass a forgery if I added something to it that clearly identified it as a copy, and, more important, neither can the FBI.”

“So, you think it’s okay that they’re just going to hang a fake?”

“Like I said, that’s on them. Besides, that’s not a crime, right? And, even if it is, it’s not _my_ crime. Anyway, did you know some experts estimate that as much as twenty percent of the art on display in galleries could be fake?”

“You’re making that up,” Burke accused.

“I’m not. In fact, next year, the National Gallery in London is going to have an entire exhibition on fakes in the art world.”

“How do you know what the National Gallery is going to do next year?” Peter demanded suspiciously.

Caffrey smiled. “They’ve commissioned a couple of pieces from me—a Manet and a Renoir.”

Peter gaped at him. “They’ve what? You can’t sell forgeries to the National Gallery, Neal!” Then he shook his head. “We’re getting off track, one problem at a time. We’ll deal with the National Gallery some other time; right now, Haustenberg.

“On the upside, Julianna actually had one other piece of helpful information she never mentioned to you: the law firm her grandmother used to handle her affairs. She called and left them a message to see if they might know anything about Haustenberg’s will or how to track it down, or at least anything in the grandmother’s file that would’ve indicated she received a bequest. Anything that links them officially would help. I’ll follow up with them tomorrow.”

“Maybe I _was_ distracted by the cute girl,” Caffrey muttered, “if I didn’t even get that much information.” He grinned. “On the other hand, I did at least get to hear the hypothetical story about how grandma got her hands on the painting. I can always appreciate a good scam. Allegedly, I mean.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I really don’t need anyone giving you ideas.” Caffrey didn’t bother telling him that it wasn’t a new idea, and nothing he hadn’t tried before himself, at least in the broad strokes.

“What about Dorsett?” Caffrey asked between bites. “Please tell me I didn’t mess up the case.”

“It certainly got a little more complicated. In a perfect world, we arrest a suspect with the incriminating evidence in their possession; we’re not going to have that this time.”

“But can’t you use decoys in your sting operations? Protect the valuable property?”

“We can, Neal, but this got too complicated. We can’t definitively place the genuine painting in his hands, which means we can’t definitively pin the robbery on him; we’ll have to do it a different way. We’ll get Taryn to testify that he wanted to sell the authentic copy; we’ll try to get Joshua and Gary to testify against him about the robbery. I think we can still make it work; it’ll just be a little harder.”

“But the Channing will confirm the painting he was arrested with is genuine; that should be good enough.”

“Neal.” Peter fixed the young man with a stern gaze. “I can’t allow Walter to testify knowing he’s going to perjure himself.”

“But—”

“No buts, that’s a non-starter. I _might_ be willing to overlook his deceit to protect you, but I can’t use it to convict someone. Because of your actions, Neal, I have to build a case without testimony from the museum curator, probably the original victim, and even my expert consultant. Does that lay things out clearly enough for you? Do you see the problems now?”

Chastened, Caffrey spoke timidly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would . . . well, maybe we’ll just leave it at I didn’t think. But I never meant to jeopardize the case, I hope you know that. And not just because of my already tenuous probation.” He stared down at his plate for a while, picking at a stray piece of noodle, then continued, still not looking back at Burke, “And I also hope you know I’d never ask you to do anything that would . . . I mean, anything that you . . . _dammit._ ” He jerked his eyes back up to those across the table and found a way to say what he was trying to say. “I’m not trying to cause you any trouble, Peter, especially not the kind of trouble that brings you closer to my side of the law than yours. I wouldn’t ask that of you. I hope you know that.”

Peter sat silently for a moment, then said, “Haversham told me he was surprised you had stolen the painting at all.”

“Yeah, he was.” Neal smiled tightly, no humor in it at all. “I should’ve realized then what a huge mistake it was—he’s not usually one to complain about my criminal proclivities.”

“But he also told me he didn’t want you to tell me; he thought it would be more prudent just to give the painting back to Dorsett and be done with it.”

“He did,” Caffrey answered, the uncertainty clear.

“Why didn’t you do that? Or, even pawn a forgery off on him on your own? As long as he got the painting, Taryn would’ve been safe.”

“Because—” Neal realized he needed to think about that a minute. At the time, he’d told Mozzie Taryn was the reason, but Peter was right; he could’ve delivered either the original or a copy to Dorsett without confessing his lapse in judgment, and the FBI would never have been the wiser. Moz had made the same argument, but Neal had insisted Dorsett was too dangerous to leave on the streets. And while that was undeniably true, he wasn’t sure it was the _whole_ truth. Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t know, Peter. Taryn was part of it; you’d said Dorsett was a bad guy, so I wasn’t sure if I could trust him to leave her alone, even if he had the painting. But also, he’d taken your money, and I knew we’d have to arrest him to get that back, so that was part of it. And, of course, my deal with you—I’m supposed to help catch the bad guys now, not let them get away. But, mostly . . .” He gave a half-hearted shrug and a tiny, hesitant smile. “Mostly, I guess I just thought you’d be able to help me fix the mess I made.”

“Haversham also said you thought I might slap the cuffs on you right here at the house once you told me what you’d done.”

“You guys sure did a lot of talking in a hundred and two seconds.”

“It wasn’t so much a conversation as me listening to a rapid-fire lecture,” Peter told him drily. “And don’t try to change the subject; I’m wise to your tricks, you know.”

Caffrey raised his eyebrows and quirked half a grin in his best _who, me?_ impression as he pushed his plate aside and pulled his wine glass closer. He tried to ignore the FBI agent on the other side of the table, waiting expectantly for an actual answer, though he knew that wouldn’t work long. And it didn’t.

“Let’s hear it, Caffrey.”

The CI sighed dramatically. “What is it you want me to say, Peter? That I figured stealing a two-million-dollar painting might be more than you were willing to overlook? Yeah, I thought that was a real possibility. Sue me.”

“But you came anyway.”

“You were still the best guy to help me fix my mess.”

Peter looked surprised at such a simple admission, but he drove his point home. “Then why wouldn’t you confide in me before you made the mess even bigger?” He pushed his own plate out of the way and leaned forward across the table, looking intently at his young consultant. “Neal, you have to understand something: this _is_ about more than me doing my job and arresting you now. And it’s even about more than the cases and your probation. It’s about how you’re supposed to be on _my_ side of the law now; it’s about you and me. We have to work _together_ , have to be able to count on each other. And I know you don’t like the idea of ‘trust but verify,’ but you have to realize, trust _is_ part of that—it’s the important part. If I didn’t trust you, Neal, you’d still be sitting in supermax, you have to know that.” He took a breath. “I will always be the guy to help you fix your messes, Neal, but I can also be the guy who keeps you from making them in the first place. _You_ have to trust _me_ enough to let me do that.”

Neal looked back across the table at the sincerity on his handler’s face. If he’d had any doubt about the man’s trustworthiness—which he hadn’t, not really—it would have evaporated in that instant. He smiled softly. “Much to Mozzie’s chagrin, I do trust you, Peter. But like you said, you’re wise to my tricks; you know there might be times I do things my own way—ways you might not approve of—and I can’t promise you anything different. But I can promise you this: Even if I somehow find myself on the wrong side of the law, I will be on _your_ side, Peter; you _can_ count on me. When it really matters, I’m your guy.”

Peter matched the smile. “You work for me, right?”

“Until you say otherwise.” By this point, Neal had a pretty good idea that _otherwise_ wasn’t just yet, but he still wouldn’t mind if Peter clarified that for him, just to be sure. He hoped this would be one of those times the agent seemed able to read his mind, and Peter didn’t disappoint.

“Well, that’s good, because I think I might need some help getting through my reports on this particular mess. We’ll make the case against Dorsett stick—legally—but it might take some of your special brand of creative thinking to explain it all on paper.”

“Reports?” Neal’s face scrunched up in disdain. “Really, Peter? You can’t find a better way to use my creative thinking than paperwork?”

“I could use you as a test subject—see how long it takes to plan a second escape from supermax,” Peter suggested with an evil grin.

Neal pouted for a second, but then couldn’t hold back a laugh, too relieved to keep up his end of the game. “No, no, paperwork is fine. I’ll make you the talk of the Bureau; everyone will be so impressed with your newfound report writing prowess. Agents will be requesting your case files just to peruse your flowery prose and read tales of your daring exploits. It’ll be great.”

Peter just shook his head and pulled in a swig of beer. “That’s not quite what I had in mind,” he grumbled, though humor lit his eyes.

“I know, but you think too small, Peter. I am a model employee, after all.”

“Consultant,” Peter corrected routinely.

Neal grinned at him. “Yeah, but I’m your _favorite_ consultant.”

**~End~**

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading! 
> 
> Incidentally, the National Gallery in London really did have an exhibition in 2010 called _Close Examination: Fakes, Mistakes and Discoveries._ To my knowledge, they did not actually commission any reproductions.


End file.
